


I Clutched my Life and Wished It Kept

by onepieceofharry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic tension, Grief/Mourning, I mean, M/M, Politics, Violence, Worldbuilding, domestic tension?, draco wants toast but george only buys muggle, george has been radicalized and draco de-radicalized but still an idiot, might get preachy at points, okay look, philosophy?, please dont get me wrong, the vast majority of this fic is domestic fluff, theres gonna be some words is all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:34:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepieceofharry/pseuds/onepieceofharry
Summary: A treacherous version of Draco Malfoy stumbles across a violent and unhinged Weasley twin in the middle of nowhere, forcing him into living like a hermit and travelling up and down the U.K as he's dragged along on whatever bloody quest this fucked up version of a Weasley twin was.Or: George loses Fred a year early, and that does to him just about what you'd expect. Draco calls it quits on the death eater shtick early his seventh year. They get stuck together.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/George Weasley
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wassup bros who's ready for a fic that only two people will read? A survivalist/wistful travel fic where being forced to live together eventually leads to wuv between two people where that should never happen? My SHIT.
> 
> Anyways if u have any fic recs for this pairing drop em in the comments

Every beat of his feet on the forest floor sent pain up his achilles, spiking up his knees and then to the creak in his back. The ground was uneven, branches snapping and leaves crunching with every footfall, drying his throat in fear. He’s been running for a while, and his breath was loudly puffing out despite his best efforts to keep quiet. 

They were still behind him.

Despite the ringing in his ears or pounding of his footsteps he could still hear them. They’re weighty steps, their easy breath, their jeering laughter. They were snatchers, ones he’d been assigned to help as a rather mundane punishment for misbehaviour. They were lower than Draco in the social order, or were supposed to be anyways, and did a lot more physical labour than he’d ever had to do in his privileged lifetime. Despite being years his senior they kept up easily, nipping at his heels with insults or once, terrifyingly, almost grabbing at his shoulder. Draco had put some space between them in using his superior dexterity to vault over a fallen log, but he could hear them gaining ground quickly and easily. Draco didn’t even have his wand to help him.

There wasn’t any thought towards what would happen to Draco when they caught up, only a black hole of misery that he would give anything to avoid. There wasn’t a lot of thought altogether at the moment, his brain whited-out with prey instinct, forcing him to keeping running even through the ache in his body, to maneuver dense foliage with as much grace as a panicked foal, unpracticed limbs forced into feats of physical exertion because the blood singing in his veins demanded he flee from predators.

A thin film of magic brushed his arm, causing him to jerk in alarm, throwing off his running and sending him tumbling into a pile of leaves. He’d thought they’d thrown a warning spell, but an alarmed glance behind him showed they weren’t actually in sight yet, though he could still hear them. Draco glaced over to where he’d felt the magic and sees the air shimmer, disrupted, before it settles. His wizard-brain comes back on enough that Draco crawls over, feeling over the area and hoping he wasn’t wasting precious time. 

His hands settled on thick fabric and warmth spills out, a flash of wooden floor revealing itself in the triangle of shifting fabric.

A tent.

“I hope I get to be there when he kills you,” the older one - Abram - coughs out from afar, the sincerity in his voice causing his partner to laugh.

All his vague trepidation about hermit wizards living in the woods vanish, forcing him into the tent and hastily closing the flap behind him. Hopefully the men have reduced magical prowess to balance out their fucking brutish stamina and won’t notice the disillusionment charm like Draco had. 

The first thing he noticed about his haven was the warmth, such a stark relief to the cold that it was almost painful how quickly his skin warmed. The second thing he noticed is how bloody _small_ the tent was. The foyer Draco was crouched on was just the size of a rug, a single step separating it from the rest of the room, and _room_ was the operative word. Two steps in was a burning stove that sat adjacent to a short counter and then a cold box beyond, all pressed together in a kitchen space that was barely the length of Draco’s wingspan. The rustic wooden table that completed the “kitchen” was only big enough for two people even though it was tall, two wooden backed-barstools tucked under the lip. A broom closet, a twin bed, a regular closet, a door to what he assumed was an appropriately small bathroom, and dominating the whole tent was a writing desk absolutely _littered_ with parchment in the very center of the room. In fact, the parchment seem to have migrated off the thing and to both the floors and walls, tacked up with spellwork. The whole thing was smaller than Draco’s bathroom.

Running water sounded from beyond the bathroom door, steam wafting out beneath the gap.

Draco sucked in air, trying to regulate his breathing as much as he could while he had the luxury of privacy. In just a few easy long strides he was by the bed, ducking and rolling underneath before collapsing in an exhausted heap, his breathing still ragged. Sweat he hadn’t noticed in the cold and urgency soaked his clothes, and his ankle throbbed like he’d twisted it, though he couldn’t remember when. Tears welled in his eyes, but before the true horror of his situation could make them break free dual footsteps filled the small space. Familiar footsteps.

Draco clamped a hand over his mouth, shuffling further back under the bed as silently as he could.

“Woah, well this is swell,” Abram said, whistling lowly at the abode.

“Beats freezing our bollocks off, that’s for sure.” Draco didn’t know the other man’s name, but he’d distinguished himself with his snarly voice.

A thud and a curse. The two footsteps separated, fanning out over the room.

“Come out, you little bitch.”

“Fuck, I hope he’s not still outside.”

He should have stayed outside.

Wood creaked, and the two men jolted.

“Er, can I help you gentlemen?”

The new voice was young and confused, but unalarmed at the snatchers occupying his space. Draco inched closer to the edge, unable to see the faces of the men in the room from the angle under the bed. While the two snatchers were dressed in black the man was naked save for a towel around his waist, hip cocked with one hand holding on to the fold keeping him covered. Draco grimaced. Vulnerable prey.

“Official auror business, I’m afraid,” Abram said. “We’re going to have to search your tent.”

“Of course,” the man replied, being so damn accommodating to snatchers that it set Draco’s teeth on edge.

There wasn’t anywhere else to run, not that he could if he wanted to. He was too exhausted; his ankle twisted, his muscles shuddery. In just a scant few moments Abram and company will find him cowering under a bed like a small child and drag him out by the ankles. All that remained beyond that was the short life of a traitor followed by the death of one. Oh, _merlin fuck_ , he was going to die.

A panicked breath tried to take control but before the noise could alert the snatchers a hard, thumping sound filled the space, followed by a body dropping. Before he could mourn the innocent hermit wizard the same sequence of sounds happened again, and this time the oh-so lovely Abram was eye-level with him as he collapsed next to the bed, wide-eyed and gurgling.

The naked man tutted. “Why do you make my job so difficult?”

Naked thighs filled Draco’s vision as Abram was straddled, then the _thud thud thud_ of something being brought down on his head, over and over and over again. The naked man grunted with exertion, uncaring for the pool of blood quickly spilling across his floorboards. When he was finished he collapsed beside Abram’s corpse, pulling in ragged breaths while he lazily dropped whatever blunt object he’d used to kill Draco’s comrades-turned-hunters.

Draco stayed quiet, unable to acknowledge how close he’d been to being found and turned over for execution, nor how brutally his pursuers had died. And he was certainly not able to acknowledge how said killer was just a scant few inches from his nose.

He’d had to have made a noise, for the naked man to whip his head so fast, but he himself hadn’t heard anything. Yet there he was, wild eyes meeting Draco’s in all blood-soaked glory.

He was dead.

Draco squeaked in alarm but it came out more of a sob, throwing his weight back and spinning his position so his feet faced the killer, ready to start kicking but ultimately just desperately trying to scramble as far away as he could. It was pointless. A hand wrapped around his injured ankle and pulled, wrenching another sob from Draco as he clawed at the ground.

_I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die-_

A hand clasped his robe and yanked him to his feet. Draco wailed, crying in earnest and clawing at the wrist holding him up.

A bloody face peered down on him. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man accompanied the words with a soft shake to Draco’s person. It did not persuade Draco to calm.

The shaking stopped suddenly. Instead Draco was drawn towards the man and scrutinized. He flinched back.

A long silence, then, “…Malfoy?”

Up close (too close) he could see the red hair, locks still wet and curling and freckles that almost seamlessly blended with blood splatter. Draco sucked in a breath.

“Weasley?”

***

The rope bit into his wrists, it’s strength easily holding him despite being conjured. Typically conjured materials degrade, which was why transfiguration is such a big subject, but these were as tough as steel, keeping him tethered to the headboard. He wasn’t strewn about like some heroine from one of his mother’s horrific novels, rather sitting crosslegged at the head of the bed, turned away from the room to face the hands bound in his front. Weasley had dragged out the bodies, each of them making a sickening thud as they got dragged over the foyer step and out into the crisp fall air. Their blood was still on the floor, in fact streaked across it, but apparently Weasley had decided the blood stuck in his hair was more important because he was taking another shower.

He’d also taken Draco’s shoes, a move both practical towards the cleanliness of his sheets and strategic, as running through the woods barefoot was actually near impossible.

There must be something wrong with him, to care more about the shoe thing that the whole ‘being tied to a killer’s bed’ thing. The ropes could degrade at any moment but without his shoes he was truly trapped.

With a Weasley.

Much to Draco’s chagrin, he didn’t actually…know which one. Well, he knew it wasn’t Ronald or any generation beyond his, but the man who’d tied him up with both a curl of his lip and blankness in his eyes didn’t exactly inspire recognition. He was bigger than Ronald, his shoulder’s stretching broader and arms meatier. His face was clean-shaven, however, and he didn’t have any tattoos. He’d recognized him as well, and not in the ‘so this is the brat I saw once on platform nine and three-quarters’ way, but in a ‘I have personally wanted to break your face’ sort of way which, again, barely narrowed it down. Still, despite the overtly horrific murders Draco had bore witness to he had hope he could appeal to Weasley’s gryffindor sensibilities. Well, hope was a strong word. More like he had a plan to do everything he could to try and escape with his life and that included making himself pitiable. 

Draco rubbed his face into his shoulder, clearing away the mess. He was so tired.

The bathroom door creaked open once again, Weasley emerging wearing clothes this time. He took a look at Draco, lips pursed, then directed his gaze to the bloodied floor.

“ _Tergeo_ ,” he said, whipping a wand from his trousers to cast on the stain. The streaked blood receded from it’s streaked departure, crawling back to the puddle to slowly disappear. Though the vast majority of the red vanished, a small puddle of rust discoloring was left in it’s wake.

“It’s the wood,” Draco muttered hoarsely, eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s absorbent, and already magicked through the tent. You’d need a specialist to get rid of the stain. Or you could just sand down the wood.”

Weasley’s face twisted, like it wanted to form an expression of mockery but couldn’t work up the energy for it. Instead he sat down at the foot of the bed. Draco tensed.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Draco clenched his jaw, frustration flicking through him. He’d been dragged along with the two snatchers as ‘training’ for hesitating during dueling lessons. A stupid mistake, but a tedious afternoon mindlessly following snatchers on their rounds seemed both inconsequential and the perfect opportunity to, well, casually slip away from supervision and end the fucking endless horror that was his life now. He hadn’t counted on the fact the snatchers were _anticipating_ his treachery, had probably been warned to watch out by auntie Bella herself. 

“I have no idea where _here_ is,” Draco said, biting his lip against the anger straining in his voice. “They brought me here to watch me defect, apparently.”

Weasley hummed, glancing at the bloodstain on the floor. “They were looking for you, then.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course, what else would they be looking for?”

He hummed again. Draco’s eyes narrowed, before casting them about the room. The parchment he’d been unable to parse was still there, its volume suspicious. In fact, it wasn’t due to distance or poor eyesight that he’d been unable to read the writings, but the fact they were all charmed, a spell that scattered letters about to any observer who didn’t have permission to view the writings. 

A common espionage spell.

Draco sucked in a breath. “Well,” he breathed, inching further away, “I can see you’re terribly busy, and as I am very obviously a traitor to your enemies it seems there’s no need for me to overstay my welcome.”

He wrenched on the rope around his wrists, hearing the headboard groan. Weasley sort of groaned as well, though it was subdued, pressing his face into his hands. 

“I don’t think I can just let you leave, Malfoy.” He looked pained as he said it.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Yes, well.” Weasley shook his head, shaking out his exhaustion. “In all honesty, it would be better for you to stay here as well. If you truly did turn traitor then they’re looking for you, and you have nowhere to go.”

Draco lips pinched. “Trying to incentivize my kidnapping?”

“Trying to reason with you, though merlin knows that’s never worked before.”

This time Weasley properly spoke with derision. Draco sneered. “Which bloody Weasley are you? Can’t tell you lot apart.”

Weasley flinched, eyes flicking over his shoulder like he was looking for someone only for them to shoot back to Draco. “I’m George.”

“Ah,” Draco said noncommittal, but inwardly he was floored. George Weasley looked…rough. His hair was longer, falling in wet ringlets around the face he hadn’t been able to recognize, because truly it was like the world took a Weasley twin and tossed him in the middle of a hurricane. Eyes bruised, features tensed and twisted, and so pale and drawn that his freckles acted as the only point of colour to his face. Worse yet, there was a noticeable…lacking on the side of his head, a missing appendage Draco refused to contemplate. As if contrasting how horrible his face looks, his body had grown up and out from the last time Draco had laid eyes on a Weasley twin, a man’s body with practical musculature vastly greater than the adolescent frame he’d had as beater in quidditch. Still, it was hard to be intimidated by a man with such a tortured face. It was much easier to be intimidated by a man who’d just brutally killed two people not one foot from Draco’s eyes.

Right. Can’t forget that.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, because a straight answer to that question would be a nice change of pace.

George grimaced. “You’re a huge death eater prat, Malfoy, but I’ve never killed someone younger than me before. Please don’t give me reason to.”

In the myriad of answers he could have given, that one was by far the most frightening. 

***

Draco Malfoy was in his tent.

This…wasn’t something he was prepared for. 

George sighed, taking in how Malfoy cowered on the bed and feeling only exhaustion. He’d meant what he’d said earlier, he truly did not want to kill Malfoy, especially not when he was tied to a bed and curled in on himself like some heroine in one of those horrible witches romance books his mother pretends not to read. Malfoy looked quite horrific in a number of ways, somehow the least of which being the death eater robes clinging to his skinny frame. George didn’t have much room to talk when it came to how the war affected his health, but at least he didn’t have the precedent of being a right rich sod who was always pressed and clean to strike a contrast.

“Right,” George said, striking his knees as he rose to his feet. Malfoy flinched.

“Right…” Draco Malfoy was afraid of him, properly this time. George didn’t enjoy it as much as he thought he would. “We need to get going.”

Malfoy sneered. “…we?”

“Yup. Eventually a search party will come looking for the snatchers I killed and I’d rather not be here when that happens.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it. Instead he tugged on his restraints. “By all means..?”

George grimaced, something he felt he’d be doing a lot of for the foreseeable future. He pulled out his wand and stepped closer, noting how Malfoy cringed away as he approached. For a second he wanted to apologize when he saw the suspicion turn to panic as he settled his wand on Malfoy, and noticeably not his restraints.

“No, wait!”

“ _Stupefy._

But apologizing to a Malfoy would be taking the joke too far. 

He’d been south, tucked away close enough to London to be in the loop of information coming out of the ministry but far enough away that regular aurors would never be able to accidentally trip over him. Snatchers, on the other hand, were a separate breed and very welcome to fall into his lap.

George huffed as he slipped outside his tent, flicking his wand twice to have Malfoy’s limp body follow him. He had to move now, and that both annoyed and relieved him. It was a good spot, but he’d been camped here for far too long and had pushed his luck too far, so having a clear excuse to finally leave simply felt like a sign. Besides, he had other leads to follow, so it wasn’t like he needed the intel from London anymore.

But Malfoy…would be a complication. 

He’d have to verify Malfoy’s claim of course, which meant he needed some veritaserum, which meant a trip to the wizarding world he truly didn’t want to make. Killing Malfoy would be the easier option, but contrary the opinions of anyone unlucky enough to learn how George spent his days he wasn’t someone who relished, or even enjoyed, death. He wasn’t a fucking Death Eater.

No, he killed people for a purpose. Killing Malfoy wouldn’t serve that purpose.

…so long as the shit was telling the truth.

And if he was, well, that left the whole new problem of what to do with him. Obviously if he was lying and truly was loyal to Voldemort then all George would have to do was dig another grave, but if he was telling the truth that meant that he would be both a wanted traitor and an excellent source of information. Not that George would be the one to extract that information. The order would want him, but contacting the order…

George growled under his breath, heaving his tent under his arms and grabbing Malfoy by the wrist, turning on his heel and disappearing with a crack.

Malfoy was a fucking complication.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up has been unpleasant ever since Draco had taken the mark. Unconsciousness had served as an escape from the constant threat, the monotony and exhaustion waiting around for something horrible to happen, only broken by said horrible thing that made Draco regret ever hating the anticipation. Coming awake was always a painful transition from relative comfort and luxury of his massive four-poster bed to the encroaching understanding that in just a few minutes he’d be staring into the face of evil and pretending to relish the honour.

This time was different. Draco woke from a restless sleep to find himself on the floor, an awkward sprawl that had his shoulder wrenched and hips twisted. He gasped, deliriously reaching out to push himself up only to see stars float over the warm light of the room.

…something very different to the cool tones of his bedroom.

Awareness came as it always does and Draco jumped up, ignoring his lack of balance to gape at the world around him.

“Chill out.”

Draco spluttered, turning on his heel to find the voice only to trip on some horrifically rustic rug and fall flat on his arse.

“Wow,” Weasley said from his seat behind the desk, a mean twitch in his lip. “Just as graceful as one can expect from someone of your stature.”

“Where are my clothes?” Because that was the more pressing question, as it was the beginning of winter and somehow his robes had disappeared, leaving him in just trousers and his dark undershirt.

“Well,” Weasley said mildly, leaning back in his chair and scrutinizing Draco in a movement uncomfortably reminiscent of his father. “I just thought, since you deserted and all, that you wouldn’t need death eater robes anymore. Am I wrong, Malfoy?”

His eyes noticeably flit to Draco’s bared arm, his undershirt only stretching to his shoulders. It left Draco with a chill.

“Whatever.”

Draco shivered, wrapping arms around himself and ignoring the narrowed eyes of his…captor? Saviour? Annoying roadblock on his way to some villa very far away from Britain where he can eat treacle tart and wait out both the winter and the war?

Weasley coughed. “If you’re cold go sit by the stove.”

Draco sneered. “What am I, a victorian orphan muggle?”

“Then be cold.”

Without further words Weasley turned his attention to the parchment on his desk, busying himself with whatever horrific work resisting the dark lord entailed. Draco didn’t care. Weasley could doom himself to his pointless endeavor all he wanted, what Draco was most concerned with is how he wasn’t tied up, a display of faith from Weasley Draco didn’t trust, but considering he didn’t have a wand it was more likely he didn’t consider Draco a threat.

He didn’t have a wand.

Abram had disarmed him when he’d first made a break for it and Draco had thankfully had enough common sense not to falter in his running, which had likely saved his life. But he’d lost his wand. 

“Did you-” Draco choked, suddenly reconsidering telling his maybe-captor that he didn’t have a wand. Ah fuck it, he’d already bloody stripped him while he was unconscious, he likely already knew. “Did you see my wand on the snatchers you, uh…”

“Nope.”

Draco coughed. “Okay, then where did you take their, uh…”

“Buried ‘em.’

Draco made a move for the tent flap, Weasley tracking him, before his steps faltered. 

“You were really going to go dig up graves the muggle way?” Weasley laughed. “Without any shoes?”

“Obviously not,” Draco bit out. He flit his eyes from the door to Weasley’s wand. “You go do it.”

“Even if I had the desire to grave rob-” disgust coloured his tone, as if he wasn’t the one who’d dug those graves in the first place “- it’s too late. I’ve already moved us.”

“Um-” His voice came out shrill, so Draco cut it off. Instead, he resolutely marched towards the tent flap and whipped it open. The chill immediately assaulted him, the crisp, dryness of a winter beginning. It was snowing. Because they were in the mountains.

“‘S not like we could have stayed there,” Weasley said. “Someone would have gone to look for the snatchers after they missed their check-in.”

The tent flap closed and with it the blessed magical insulation resumed. Draco was still cold.

“So!” Weasley said, snapping a book shut decisively. “Let’s have a chat.”

A thousand different responses curled on Draco’s tongue. He stayed silent.

“Why were you and those two out there in the first place?”

He’d gotten in trouble. A stupid coalescence of small acts of disrespect that Auntie Bella had noticed and decided to punish, though he was beginning to understand was more like a test. She’d _noticed_ him, which was always a bad thing, but hadn’t aired her grievances over how he’d skip meals or hesitate before bowing with her Lord like she should have done, but instead simply scoffed at him in private before sending him on with the snatchers for ‘discipline lessons.’ It was almost painful how obvious it was that there was something up. Auntie Bella never missed a chance for public humiliation. 

He’d been so fucking stupid.

“I was assigned to go with the snatchers.”

Weasley’s lip curled. “Did you enjoy snatching up muggle-borns then?”

“I wasn’t there long enough for it to bloody get that far! I ran as soon as I had a chance.”

“So this wasn’t a common thing then.” Weasley repositioned himself, propping his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. “You weren’t usually assigned to the snatchers.”

“No, that was the first time.” Draco shook his head, trying to reorient himself. “I’m not with them, and I am not your enemy.”

Weasley barked a laugh. “You’ll always be my enemy, Malfoy. No matter what.”

Blood-feuds. Ugh.

“But maybe ‘enemy’ is a strong word,” Weasley considered. “It implies a lot more consideration for you than I currently have at the moment.”

Draco swallowed, arms wrapping around himself despite the casualness of his voice. “Have you then… _considered_ what it is you intend to do with me?”

The question seemed to break through the wanton maliciousness colouring Weasley’s words. Instead he leaned back in his chair, the circles under his eyes becoming more pronounced. 

“Well,” he considered, “if I let you wander off on your own you will most likely be found and imprisoned.”

“Not necessarily,” Draco said. “You could take me to a non-aligned friend and just be on your merry way.”

Weasley hummed. “Who?”

_Blaise_ , Draco thought, and opened his mouth to voice the idea before choking. Blaise was non-aligned for a reason, a reason explained to him by his terrifying and magically powerful mother. Draco didn’t even know if they were still in the country. His next thought was Pansy, but Pansy would be at Hogwart’s so that meant he’d be basically begging her mother to shelter him from his own family, something he didn’t fully trust Mrs. Hawthorn would do. Besides, Pansy’s estate would be the first place they’d check. In fact, all of the Malfoy villa’s and properties would most definitely be searched.

He was such a fucking tosser. Why did he never think things through?

“That’s what I thought.”

Draco flushed, but his arms just wrapped themselves tighter. “Well then,” Draco swallowed. “Let’s have it. What are you going to do with me?”

Weasley stared at him, their eyes catching and making Draco flinch. “What I would like to do,” he said, “is hand you over to the Order. They’ll protect you if you’re telling the truth, or you would make an excellent hostage if you aren’t. Either way, it would be a problem solved.”

Draco’s face twisted. “‘Would like to’..?”

“Yes. Unfortunately me and the Order aren’t exactly…” Weasley trailed off. “What I mean to say is that bringing you to them could be a trial.”

“Which means..?”

“That it could take a while,” Weasley said flatly. “A few weeks at least.”

Draco sputtered. “A few weeks of doing _what_ exactly?”

Weasley took a deep breath, looking about the small room with calculating eyes until they coloured with resignation. “Living here, I suppose.”

***

Draco slept in the tub. 

“It’s the only room I can lock you in,” Weasley had pointed out reasonably, drawing quilts from a small chest at the foot of the bed. “I can’t exactly let a potential death eater wander around when I’m asleep.”

It made sense (and at least he wasn’t tied to the bed anymore), but it was still…demeaning. When Draco had been informed he’d have to stick to Weasley he’d been dismayed, but the true idea hadn’t solidified until he was huddled in the white porcelain shower, curled on quilts that reeked of disuse, and pulling the shower curtains closed in an effort to make his space smaller. To feel, ugh, safer - like a cat curling into a box.

Demeaning was too soft a word.

He’d stayed in the bathroom that first day, only leaving when George kicked him out to use the facilities, tying him to the desk for the brief period with a casual “I’ll be out soon” that left Draco quietly fuming. Aside from that Draco was left free, the door ajar in clear, well, if not invitation then acknowledgment that he was free to leave the bathroom (if only during the day). 

Draco didn’t leave.

But the next he had to, skulking out of the horrifically small bathroom into the horrifically small kitchen with a horrific lack of grace. Weasley eyed him (Draco just _knew_ even though he didn’t look up) but he didn’t say anything, just let Draco open the ice box and promptly recoil.

All the food was…muggle. Metallic foil inked with starkly colourful branding assaulted his eyes, the film clinging to the rectangle bricks that boasted a large amount of protein in frankly violent fount. There were at least four different kinds of the…food bricks, alongside small bottles that also boasted the grams of protein within like they’d invented the thing. Why someone would need so much protein was lost to Draco. Did it taste like meat? Liquid meat? Repulsive.

Thankfully there was butter and milk (all in horrible muggle packaging, however), and even more gratefully was bread and jam. No vegetables or fruit…perhaps Draco should re-evaluate the sanity of his captor. Isn’t this how wizards caught scurvy?

“There’s beans and canned soup in the cupboard,” Weasley called across the room, not needed to shout seeing as the room was the size of a broom closet. “And some preserved fruits.”

So, no scurvy.

“You can cook on the burning stove if you need to, and the kettles already hot.”

Draco jumped at that, only wincing slightly as he grabbed one of the suspended mugs above the miniscule sink and helping himself to the kettle that was only gently simmering on top of the burning stove. A few minutes of searching for tea bags and sugar and then Draco had a cup of tea, the first sip feeling almost too luxurious to comprehend. 

Parchment ruffled and Draco froze, slowly turning to face the noise. Weasley hadn’t looked up.

He breathed out, then took another calming sip.

So. Breakfast.

He didn’t have a wand, and even if he did it wasn’t like he knew any cooking spells. Weasley had offered the burning stove but the contraption didn’t exactly seem…intuitive. And he would rescind his heritage if he ever touched one of the muggle food bricks.

He had bread and butter. Like a starving orphan. 

He had five slices.

When he was done he retreated to the bathroom, closing the door decisively on a successful mission well done. He’d wanted to take food with him, but the idea of mixing food with the dubious cleanliness of a Weasley bathroom nixed that idea. 

The days continued like that. Leaving for food or being kicked out, eating bread with butter or jam, having tea, and going back in. 

With nothing to entertain himself except his thoughts. 

In an effort to distract himself from the, what mother would call “melodramatic” laments, Draco thought of Weasley. The Weasley twins had been characters, always loud unless they were scheming and even louder when they were pranking. They had every bit of gryffindor arrogance and the most loudly obnoxious personalities Draco had ever had the displeasure to be around. George Weasley, as he was now, had not really met Draco’s expectation for a Weasley twin. He’d been…subdued. Almost dismissive of the absurd situation that was Draco living in his bath. He wasn’t unconcerned, or at least he didn’t seem to be, but it was like he had already compartmentalized Draco in his life, something Draco himself was struggling to even broach. 

He worked. All day whenever Draco slunk out for food he was at that desk, quill in hand and pouring over whatever information he found so interesting. One time Draco had come out and Weasley had been on the floor, doing muggle exercises silently and with complete dedication.

Ah, yes. Weasley was also a violent maniac. Couldn’t forget that.

(It didn’t count as melodrama if he was right to be concerned.)

Draco had watched Weasley bludgeon two men to death, treating them as little more than pests to be eliminated. He’d removed their bodies like he was removing garbage and only frowned at the residual blood stain Draco could still see on the hardwood floor. And he’d made it very clear that if Draco overstepped he would kill him with nary a care.

And his eyes. They were always slightly smoldering, contempt curling in them as he did whatever work he busied himself with each day. Sometimes his jaw would flex, sometimes his hands would clench, it always put Draco on edge, so he was always on edge.

Eventually (for longer than Draco usually allowed), he needed to clean himself. Again, no wand, so he heaved his makeshift bed out of the tub and took the quickest shower of his life. The relief of washing the sour smell off himself was almost immediately undone by having to put on his old clothing again, but being naked was definitely something he wanted to avoid.

When Draco left the bathroom next, idly wondering if he was getting desperate enough to attempt the stove, he felt the presence of eyes on him immediately, causing him to trip on that damn rug. 

“I’m going to run some errands today,” Weasley said. “So I’m gonna have to leave you in the bathroom for a few hours.”

Draco shrugged, quickly raiding the ice box for bread and jam.

“I’m going grocery shopping,” Weasley continued, slowly moving out from behind the desk. Draco tensed. 

“Do you want anything?”

He opened his mouth only to close it again, inspecting the bread bag in his friend. “Will it be muggle?”

Weasley’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. That was another thing, the Weasley twins were vocal, creatively so. This one only spoke when he had to.

“I wouldn’t know what to ask for,” Draco settled on, shrugging as if he didn’t care. As if he hadn’t lived on bread and condiments for _days_ by now.

“I could get more bread?” Weasley asked. Draco scowled.

“It’s not like there’s anything else to eat,” he sneered. “I had low expectations with the whole hermit lifestyle, but have you never heard of a fresh vegetable?”

Weasley frowned. “Fresh produce doesn’t keep, and I don’t always have the spare time for regular grocery trips.”

Draco said nothing, the implications of that creating new suspicions that he immediately squelched. It was none of his business.

“I told you you could use the stove, did I not?”

Draco flushed, hands balling at his sides. “And I’m just supposed to instinctively know how that contraption works? They didn’t exactly have them in the Hogwart’s common room.”

Weasley looked from the stove to Draco then back again, somehow both annoyed and considering. He sighed.

“Well, I have to go in the next five minutes, so finish up here and if you think of anything just let me know.”

Weasley left it at that, stepping over to the sleeping area to pull on one of those muggle jumpers with the hood and large front pouch, reaching inside the pocket to pull out a small square of leather that he flipped open then flipped closed. Draco huffed. 

That was another thing about Weasley, how he wore almost exclusively muggle clothing. 

It was gauche.

***

He was gone for hours.

Whatever. Draco had stayed sequestered in his bathroom for hours before. It wasn’t a big deal. 

Weasley wasn’t working for the order.

Every day he did paperwork, something already incongruent with the image Draco had of a Weasley twin, and he wasn’t doing it for the order. He was hunkered down, eating brown muggle bricks and doing muggle exercises and killing snatchers with paperweights without the order for support. Was there another, even more secret rebellious order that was active and…fighting with the order of the phoenix? Or was it just Weasley that was fighting with the order? Or maybe not fighting, but not agreeing? 

Blood flew in his mind’s eye. Was George too…violent for the order of the Phoenix?

There was a hippogriff in the room Draco had been ignoring, too repulsed and afraid to consider but…George Weasley was missing an ear.

A knock sounded and Draco startled, hitting his head on the faucet above and groaning. 

“Come out, Malfoy. I have things for you.”

_Things?_

Draco opened the door, peeking out with narrowed eyes. Weasley was in the kitchen, riffling through white plastic bags and pointing his wand at items to soar into their respective spot. One bag wasn’t plastic, instead some kind of paper and it was tucked untouched on the bar stool.

“Come on,” Weasley beckoned, waving a hand. “Hurry up.”

“I’m not a dog,” he said, but Draco went anyways.

The bag was for him, it turned out. Three pairs of trousers, three short-sleeved garment, a jumper, sleepwear, a package of socks and, giving Draco a new perspective of the depths of horror that existed in the world, a package of underwear.

“You need to change,” Weasley shrugged, unconcerned with the strangled, hacking cough afflicting Draco. “Your clothes stink, and it’s a small tent.”

“I am well aware how inadequate this hovel is! Thank you! But you _cannot_ expect me to-” he couldn’t even finish the thought. To do so would make this a reality he truly did not have the capacity to face.

“Well,” Weasley said, as if _Draco_ was being the unreasonable one, “you can either wear your current clothes until they’re just loose threads, or wear the shit I bought you and stop smelling like a-” he paused, considering, then leaned towards Draco and fucking _sniffed_.

Draco jerked back, a flush creeping up from his chest to his cheeks. “That’s not a choice.”

“I agree!” Weasley chirped, the fake cheer grating. “Now get changed.”

Draco pursed his lips. “How do I know they’ll even fit me,” he said. Anything to postpone what good hygiene suggested was inevitable.

“You don’t,” Weasley shrugged. “I just guessed your size.”

The image of George Weasley staring down a muggle rack and picturing the width of Draco’s leg in a pair of trousers afflicted him and suddenly Draco just wanted the day to be over.

“Fine.”

Giving in meant he could retreat to the bathroom and be alone, wearing horrific muggle garb or not. Doesn’t mean he didn’t rip the bag away as violently as he could get away with and leave with a glare. Not that it mattered in the next few minutes when he had to pull on some disgusting artificial fabric over his shoulders. 

Demeaning really was too soft a word.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! Yo! Thank you to the commenters!!!! You guys 5 comments is 4 more than I expected so you're awesome!!!
> 
> Also just so ya know, George isn't gonna be insane or evil or anything like that. In the tags I eventually mention this is gonna get preachy, it's because George has a very particular revelation about the world around him and that, and how it killed fred, is the driving force behind his actions. I mean, he is a ruthless killer, but like. It's fine.

There was an indeterminable grief that went with losing children, but the way it felt smashing down on your chest was entirely dependent on the way they go.

It wasn’t right, maybe, to compare how Molly had lost her other children to the way she lost Fred, but she did so anyways. For the longest time it had felt like her children were poised on the doorstep, ready and willing to make the final leap from the nest with only one singular push. With Percy leaving in the way he had, with Bill marrying, with Fred dying, with Ronald off to face Merlin only knew what, she realized how she’d been fooling herself. Her family had already splintered, the bright-eyed and freckled children she’d raised become unrecognizable in ambition she’d never seen before. Or, she supposed, never recognized.

Family was supposed to stick together. She’d had _seven_ children and all of them were gone from her home.

Fred was the only one buried.

Then, by Merlin, why did it feel like she was mourning two sons instead of one?

There was a missive on her kitchen table, a reminder that her account at _Weasley Wizard Wheezes_ was set to expire come the new year, but the actual message hadn’t been hard to decode. It was spellwork Fred and George had come up with when they were eleven and wanted to encrypt their notes on their pranks. She’d decoded it back then. It had taken her months, but all her boys had done was thank her for pointing out the flaws in their spellwork with their trademarked symmetrical cheek, and by the next month had a new set of codes. She’d never decoded those ones, but this, this was one she knew. It was meant for her.

_Hello mum,_

_Does the Order have the capacity to hold prisoners or potential ex-death eaters seeking asylum? And do they have veritaserum or other means to force the truth from someone? Your letter won’t find me, but I’ll find a way to check in to see your response._

_I will not be sharing any information or giving any context to this question with the Order or any affiliates._

_George_

George had been missing for _months_. No letter, no sign to where he’d gone. He’d worked closely with the Order before Fred had passed, the both of them. Their joke shop was successful and brought in all types, types they could easily spy on or slip spellwork on to monitor movement. They’d been almost integral to the Order, and she’d been so proud to see both economic and moral success from the two sons she’d truly believed would one day become international thieves. When Fred died, George had retreated into himself, the shock freezing him in place. Molly had understood, had done the same until her duties as a mother had asserted themselves. But then he refused to do Order work, had refused to give reports on the things overheard in his shop. Though he’d never been officially _in_ the Order, George had sent in a horrible letter to Alastor detailing his resignation, official words basically conveying _what are you going to do? Kill me?_

And then, on a normal day like any other, the joke shop was closed down and George Weasley in the wind. He was still making his payments to the ministry apparently, and had done so regularly despite the shop being closed for months. But he was gone.

Molly shakily lowered her hands into the soapy water of her sink basin, watching her reflection in the glass of her kitchen window. It was dark out, but the lights reflected behind her were warm and lovely and the light she’d felt every day for over twenty years. Her twins had always been one thing, same as the lights. One person split into two, of one mind and one heart. George had lost more than her when Fred had died, and in the weeks before he’d left she’d seen it. There was no spark in him, no twinkle of mischief and merry that caused her headaches and laughter in turn.

He was as gone as Fred was. Maybe it was better that he was out there courting death. Maybe he would be more at peace with Fred.

“Love? What is it?”

Arthur wasn’t overly concerned with the tears Molly felt on her cheeks. Neither was she. She’d been crying a lot recently.

A rustle of paper. “Oh.”

Molly barked a laugh, before pressing a hand to her mouth for such a rude sound, the dishwater soaking her skin.

“This is good news, isn’t it? He’s okay.”

She said nothing, going back to her dishes with a blank mind. Arthur didn’t press.

George wasn’t okay. He was going to die out there, and when it finally happened all Molly would think is how it will be a mercy.

***

Weasley was out more and more, which meant Draco was trapped in the bathroom more often than not. Sometimes Weasley came back with more supplies, sometimes with more parchment for him to obsess over, and sometimes, most suspiciously, money. Draco didn’t want to obsess over Weasley, but there wasn’t a whole lot else to do and his mind felt just a tad…unhinged. Like it was not his own. And it demanded that Draco invent flights of fancy towards the passing duties that entailed…whatever George Weasley was. Was he a smuggler? It would make sense that he’d be dealing with snatchers if that were the case. Smuggling muggle-borns out of the U.K was dangerous work, but also could pay well (people fleeing for their lives have loose purses, after all). He could also just simply be a spy, collecting information for the order or whatever new resistance movement that had cropped up within the last year. Yet somehow Draco didn’t feel that lucky. 

Weasley had brutally murdered two men without a blink. He’d driven a paperweight into their skulls and had the whole mess clean within the hour. Those weren’t the actions of a lowly informant. It spoke to experience, and it spoke to a more precarious position for Draco than he had been led to believe.

Well, that wasn’t fair. Weasley had been honest, hadn’t he? He said from the beginning that he’d kill Draco if he still felt death eater sentiments. 

Ha. The captive calling his warden fair. Draco had cabin fever.

“I need to go outside,” Draco decided, abruptly making a statement to the small tent that morning at breakfast, as if more than Weasley needed that information. He considered his breakfast. “And I need toast.”

“Well, that’s a ‘no’ to going outside. But I can help with the toast.”

Draco’s lips thinned. “If I had a wand I wouldn’t need your help.”

Weasley rolled his eyes, approaching the small kitchen. “You still don’t. Just learn to use the bloody stove.” 

He drew forward, reaching behind the contraption and pulling out two wire sheets that seemed to be attached to each other, with a handle on each side. He deposited the thing on the kitchen table, folding open the two sides so that they lay flat and summoning two slices of bread to lay on the griddle. The mechanism closed and the two slices were trapped inside their wire prison.

“ _Incendio._ ”

Fire roared in the stove, and Weasley reached around once again to shove a grill on top of the flames, where he then deposited the would-be toast.

“Just make sure the fire doesn’t get too big when you do this. There’s matches in the cupboard below and mittens so you don't burn yourself removing the toaster sheet.”

Weasley waited, watching Draco expectantly. He waved to the stove. “Toast.”

“Toast.” What a philosophical conundrum. Was toast truly more important than causing a fuss over how he, again, was forced into muggle conduct? 

Apparently it was. 

“I still need to go outside.”

“No.”

***

The cabin fever was worse, if the fogginess in his head and lethargy in his limbs was any indication. 

“I need to some fucking air, Weasley.”

Weasley sighed, pinching the crease in his forehead. “I don’t have time right now to play chaperone, so no.”

Draco scowled, too tired for a true bristle. “I don’t need your damn supervision.”

He was at the kitchen table, a muggle-cooked piece of toast growing cold on his plate almost taunting him with how reliant he’d been forced to grow on Weasley. Whatever, he wasn’t that hungry anyways.

“I don’t trust you, Malfoy,” George said, more tired than angry. “For all I know you’ll attempt to apparate without a wand the second you’re able, splinch yourself in half getting home, and with your dying breath explain all you’ve learned here.”

“There’s anti-apparition wards on this thing?” Draco asked, trying to keep the impressed tone out of his voice. “Nevermind. But it’s not like I’ve learned enough for it to make a difference.”

Weasley hummed, waving a hand in the air in dismissal before returning to work. Draco flushed hotly.

“People aren’t bloody meant to be kept inside. Even _Azkaban_ has windows.”

Weasley pretended to consider this. “If sending you to Azkaban would be preferable..?”

Draco had had enough, shoving himself out of his seat with every intention of sprinting for the door only for the world to spin, the hotness in his cheeks seeming to permeate his body and before he knew it he was sprawled on the floor, one leg still tucked up on the kitchen barstool.

He was breathing hard.

Draco coughed, a feeling of puzzle pieces so close to falling into place only vaguely registering beyond what Draco could now understand as a pain in his head.

He was ill.

Draco groaned, pulling his leg down to curl in on himself. Bloody brilliant. Exactly what he needed. Good show fate! Truly on par for his life right now.

A foot nudged him. Draco didn’t even have the energy to swat it away. 

“…y’alright there?” Weasley asked like it’d been ripped out of him.

“Yes. This is a choice.” Merlin, had his voice been that rough all day?

“Interesting choice…are you going to stay there?”

Draco hummed through another cough. “I’m afraid so.”

The foot nudging him flipped him suddenly, Weasley’s horrific ginger face staring at him in pained curiosity only to devolve in a frown. Next thing Draco knew the figurative oven mitt that was Weasley’s hand was clamped on his forehead.

“You’re sick,” Weasley said, like he couldn’t believe his own hand.

“Five points to gryffindor.”

***

George was going through an existential crisis. 

Okay, that was vague considering the diversity in existential crises he’d been going through the last few months, but nonetheless this was a new one. 

Draco Malfoy was a human being.

And he _knew_ that, had never felt the need to dehumanize his enemies like death eater’s do to muggle-borns, who’d respected the trap that doing so would be for him. He felt everyone he killed as a human being, no matter what they’d done.

But he’d never had to watch them sweat through their clothes or fiddle with the stove. Never had to watch them falter as they stared into the ice-box or fiddle with muggle clothes or crawl into a tub on the regular as their only bed. 

(He’d charmed the tub cushioned - he wasn’t completely heartless. But still.)

Draco Malfoy did everything a normal human being did, and Draco Malfoy got sick like a normal human being did.

Therefore; the question. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

“Can you walk?”

Malfoy didn’t respond. George rolled his eyes. 

“Can you physically fucking walk Malfoy or do I have to carry you.”

Malfoy jolted, making a valiant effort to rise only for his eyes to roll in his head and for George to hastily catch him.

“’Gerrof…”

George didn’t, the annoying part of him rearing it’s head and demanding he help this pitiful version of Draco Malfoy, an instinct he’d been struggling with ever since Malfoy had been too scared to leave the bathroom.

Two steps towards the bathroom and that instinct flared again, making George growl in frustration. A human being in distress. That was all this was.

Another few steps and Draco Malfoy was sprawled on his bed, staring up at George with open suspicion. 

“I have some pain reliever,” George said frankly, “but nothing that will end your sickness. You’re just going to have to muscle through.”

Malfoy grimaced, which quickly turned into a glower. “This is your fault.”

An irritated Malfoy was easier to deal with. “Ah, yes, I invited whatever virus into your system as a fun gift. Of course.”

“No,” Malfoy said. “You didn’t let me outside. It’s not healthy. Of course I got sick.”

He was whining, but the old wives tale logic unnerved George.

“Just sleep, you bastard.”


End file.
